Deeper Panic
by ncis-lady
Summary: He knew that deep down he still was this man, this Bucky; he knew it from the hundreds of scribbled lines and thousands of fragments of memories that came and went as they wanted to. It was one of the few things he was certain of. Unfortunately, not all of these memories were pleasant. - Filler fic for CA:CW, takes place in Wakanda, Bucky's POV.
1. Consuming me

Hey everyone, this is a filler fic for Captain America: Civil War. I know it's been done before, actually it was cairistiona7's story that made me write about CA in the first place (so take a look at hers if you haven't done so yet). This is Bucky's POV about what happened in Wakanda.

Lyrics in italics: "A deep slow panic", AFI

Inspired by the song above, Bruce Springsteen and millions of Pinterest posts.

Warnings: language (Steve apologizes on Bucky's behalf), mention of self-harm/suicide

Huge thanks to Cairistiona for being my beta for this story!

* * *

 **1\. Consuming me**

 _Slowly, it's consuming me  
Deliberate and deep  
I can't take this deeper panic  
_

The room was plain, but comfortable. A bed, a table with a chair, a sofa with a smaller table, a closet and a large window that gave a spectacular view – it was more than Bucky had ever expected to get and probably more than he deserved.

 _Stop it._

He chided himself for the last thought, reminding himself that apparently he _did_ deserve it. Steve said he did, T'Challa said he did, so why couldn't he believe it?

"You alright, Buck?"

He flinched when he heard Steve's voice. _Buck_. Sometimes it still felt strange to hear that name, uttered with such warmth and affection, spoken to him. There were times when he didn't react at all, because he felt like whoever the name belonged to wasn't him. Then again he knew that deep down he still was this man, this _Bucky_ ; he knew it from the hundreds of scribbled lines and thousands of fragments of memory that came and went as they wanted to. It was one of the few things he was certain of.

Just a tiny fraction of these memories was pleasant.

He blinked rapidly and turned his head to face Steve.

"Guess so." Bucky shrugged with his good arm. He tried not to look at the stump where the other arm, the metal one, used to be. His shoulder ached and he thought he could still feel the arm where it had been ripped off, which was ridiculous of course and he wouldn't tell Steve. The Captain didn't look too convinced. Bucky had learned to read some of his facial expressions by now. The way he creased his forehead and narrowed his eyes, his firmly set jaw and the pressed lips gave him away. Bucky groaned inwardly. He knew Steve wanted him to talk, to have a heart-to-heart, but God knew the sheer thought of it made him shake. He had been so high on adrenaline throughout the fight– an automatic reaction of his serum-enhanced body to deal with the pain, he supposed – that his mind had shut down, but afterwards the energy had ebbed away. He had dozed off multiple times during the flight and conversation had mostly consisted of one-liners. _You doin' okay? – Yes. Need anything? – No._ In Wakanda he had refused medication, knowing that his injuries would heal over time and also, admittedly, being unable to trust the white-coats. Finally he had allowed them to take care of his arm, and he _was_ grateful for what they had done, but still… He felt the absence of his arm with every breath and he knew it shouldn't bother him so much, but all the things that had happened were taking their toll on him.

"They'll find a way to help you, you know that, right?" Steve said from where he was standing in the doorway. He filled out the doorframe almost completely, never taking his eyes off Bucky as he fiddled with the hem of his shirt.

Bucky huffed and forced himself to a weak smile.

"They've already done a great deal just by taking me in, everything else is just a bonus. If all else fails, just put me into the ice again and wait till some genius figures it out."

It was meant as a joke, but as soon as he said it the idea took on a life of its own. He had seen the labs on his way to the medical check; he had noticed the too-familiar chambers. Steve had quickly dragged him on and Bucky remembered the way his stomach had lurched upon seeing them. But would it be that bad? He couldn't hurt anyone when he was in cryo, and by God he wanted the hurting to stop. He wasn't sure if he was thinking of hurting others or hurting himself, so he shoved that thought to the back of his head. Cryo was painless, he remembered that. The waking – not so much. He shivered. Surely the Wakandan doctors knew how to work this technique. It was only then that he noticed that Steve hadn't reacted. He looked up at the taller man and felt his insides knotting themselves. Steve's face was grey, his eyes shining suspiciously, and all in all he looked as if he didn't know whether to vomit, cry or punch someone.

"Sorry," Bucky added lamely, scolding himself for the tactless remark. Steve had done so much, he didn't deserve this.

 _You don't deserve it._

 _Shut up._

"We'll figure something out," Steve answered through clenched teeth. "Get some rest. The doctors will check on you again tomorrow."

Bucky nodded while inside he was cursing. He hated to see Steve looking like that. Even though there were many things he was unsure of these days, he knew, deep down, that it wasn't alright for the Captain to look like that. Briefly, images flickered through his mind; he could see a scrawny kid laughing at a circus clown and a not-so-scrawny soldier grinning like an idiot in a shabby bar. He couldn't make out the details and they probably weren't important, but the quintessence of these and other flashbacks was that the man wasn't supposed to be so grim.

"I can't wait," he replied and forced himself to another smile. Steve relaxed a little.

He wasn't looking forward to meeting more doctors soon. Part of him understood that it was probably standard protocol when you were a wanted assassin seeking refuge in Wakanda – was there even such a thing as standard protocol for a situation like this? – but the prospect of facing white coats soon set his teeth on edge. His injuries were already healing, they always did, the upside of being a genetically-modified super-soldier. The doctors wouldn't have much to examine concerning that. But they wouldn't stop there; they'd ask questions, they'd try to look inside his head and Heaven knew what they would find when even Bucky himself had no idea what was stuffed away in the dark corners he hadn't yet been able to access.

He wasn't sure whether or not he was brave enough to face those demons just yet.

"I'll be next door if you need me. And Bucky? Don't bother knocking."

After a last concerned glance Steve closed the door. The silence that followed was overwhelming. Bucky let himself sink onto the mattress and closed his eyes for a moment. Wakanda. He wondered how he could ever repay T'Challa for what he had done in order to help him.

 _Start with not going berserk and killing his people._

 _Shut up._

He was allowed to roam freely on this level of the building. Both he and Steve had been given instructions and it was with an apologetic shrug that one of T'Challa's officials had ordered Bucky to stay within this floor. For safety reasons, he had said, and Bucky wasn't one hundred percent sure whose safety he was referring to. There were armed people everywhere, the King himself was a deadly soldier; if the Winter Soldier tried to break free he'd be dead before he could get to the ground level.

 _Would make things easier._

 _Shut up._

He hated the voice. For some time he had managed to ignore it, but with everything that had happened Bucky had let his guard down once too often. It was hard to try to remember the past and keep the unwelcome parts locked away. But he _had_ to remember. Damn, he missed his backpack and the notebooks. He would eventually find a way to deal with his missing arm, but these books were something else entirely. What if he forgot everything all over again? What if everything became a blur again, what if –

He took a shuddering breath and buried his face in his hand. This wasn't good. He wasn't supposed to think like that. Steve needed him to _not think like that_. And he owed him big time.

Bucky lost track of time as he sat on the bed, letting his mind drift. He replayed everything that had happened ever since that moment when everything went downhill. To think that he had only wanted to buy some goddamn plums. He snorted and sank back against the pillow. How could he ever have thought to get away with his violent past? There was no escape from the things he'd done.

He could hear Steve telling him that it hadn't been _him_ him, but the Soldier. Steve had sounded so sure about it.

 _He doesn't know. It will kill him when he finds out what you did… what they did to you to make you do it… it will break your poor Captain's heart._

 _Shut up, please._

Bucky almost said it out loud, only stopping himself at the last second. Arguing with the voices in your head was for crazy people. He wasn't crazy. Damaged, yes, broken, probably, both physically – damn, he missed that bloody arm! – and mentally, but not insane.

 _Keep telling yourself that._

 _Shut up, shut up, shut up!_

He let out a frustrated growl and willed the Soldier to hide away in those shadowy parts that he didn't dare to approach. Just for a while, just to get some peace. But the odds were against him, he knew that much. No sleep this night, he decided. At least not yet. It wasn't something he could keep up forever, though, even his super powers needed to regenerate.

The ceiling was white but for an almost invisible, thin crack. Bucky caught himself thinking that it would just take one swing with his high-tech arm to bring it down. Oh, right. He didn't have that anymore. Probably for the better. The high frequency noise of the AC hurt his ears. Did he even hear it, or was it his imagination?

The ceiling came closer. The crack widened. He could see _him_ glimpsing through, leering, judging, waiting.

 _No._

Abruptly, Bucky got off the bed. His stomach protested against the sudden movement. He made it to the bathroom just as the bile rose in his throat. For a moment he feared that he'd throw up – man up, goddammit – but all he felt was the bitter taste that crawled up towards his tongue and the shaking of his hand. Cold sweat covered his face as he stared at his reflection in the mirror.

God, he looked awful.

He remembered the day at the Smithsonian when he had first seen himself on that wall, that face that resembled his but belonged to a stranger. _James Buchanan Barnes_. He had written the name down, memorized it, but as hard as he tried, there was only blackness and question marks when he recalled the name. Even now as he tried to recognize that man in the reflection staring at him from the mirror, all Bucky felt was the rising frustration that had become so familiar. The shabby hair that kept falling into shadowed eyes, the fatigue written all over his pale and bruised face – none of this was Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes from the museum. Maybe he was there, somewhere, hiding in the shadows, too, but he couldn't approach him there, he couldn't go there, not yet, not ever.

 _He's mine now. Your buddy wants him back so badly, but you and I both know a lost cause when we see one._

 _For God's sake, shut up, please._

The face in the mirror smiled mockingly, the cold eyes boring into his mind.

 _He's with me. He sends his regards, by the way._

"Shut up!


	2. Collapse

**2\. Collapse**

 _I haven't left here for days  
My panic keeps me awake as he unwinds inside_

Bucky's broken scream was louder than the breaking of the glass. The mirror burst under his balled fist, fell into a hundred pieces that tumbled to the floor and into the sink with what had to be the most ground-shaking noise, and Bucky immediately recoiled, gasping for air as his reflection vanished. A noise outside made his hand fly to his waist. Oh, right. No knife attached to the belt. And that noise was no enemy.

He wasn't sure if maybe he'd prefer an assassin over Steve. At least he wouldn't have to explain anything.

"Buck? Everything alright?"

He winced and waited for another two seconds before he stepped out of the bathroom.

"Thought you were sleeping," Bucky said. He found it difficult to look the Captain in the eye. He buried his hand in the pocket of his jeans and studied the art print hung up on the wall. Flowers in a vase, blue and red and white. "Sorry for waking you. You didn't need to come."

He hated the way Steve obviously knew exactly what had happened. Somehow the man could read him like an open book, while for Bucky it was many blank pages, blurred sentences and scratched out words that made it difficult to focus on the clear writing in between.

"I wasn't sleeping. You wanna talk?"

No, he did _not_ want to talk.

"I can deal with it, Steve."

He grabbed the nearest water bottle, sat down on the chair and kept the bottle between his knees while opening it with his right hand. It was frustrating, and more frustrating than anything else was his anger. He should be glad that this whole drama had only cost him his arm.

Train. Falling. Pain, snow, red on white, voices.

The images rushed through Bucky's head so fast that it made him dizzy. Sharp pain erupted behind his eyelids.

"Damn," he whispered hoarsely. He put the bottle to his mouth and emptied it. He tried to ignore the shaking of his hand. He realized that Steve was still standing there, watching, analyzing, and Bucky turned his head to him.

"I'm fine, really."

 _Liar._

 _Shut up._

"I can get by on my own. I've done so for two years."

"Yeah well, the thing is you don't have to," Steve replied quietly, making a step forward. "Cause I'm with you –"

"Till the end of the line, I know."

Bucky never knew where these words came from. He could see Steve turning pale, almost frozen where he was standing. The words echoed in his head. There was something to them, he was certain of it. He had heard them before.

Helicarrier. Mission. The river. Finish it. Till the end of the line.

"I lied," he mumbled and finally looked Steve in the eye. "About the river, why I pulled you out."

The ghost of a smile tugged at Steve's lips.

"I know," he simply said and raised his eyebrow at Bucky. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. It's just… doesn't matter," he finished dismissively. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair and sighed. "Whenever you're ready, Buck."

Bucky twisted the empty bottle in his hand. His knuckles were grazed, one cut ran across his middle finger. It stung a little, but the wounds were only superficial. They'd be healed in a fortnight. If only everything was so easily mended. He stayed where he was seated, eyeing Steve from across the room.

"I remember that mission," he said slowly. "Not all of it, but that moment when you said that about the end of the line and it just… it struck something, deep inside; it _meant_ something. Not to the Soldier. But to that other voice. The same voice that screamed and begged not to kill you. There had to be a reason for that voice to stand up against the Soldier, knowing –"

 _You can never defeat me._

 _Shut up._

Bucky shook his head lightly before looking directly at Steve, who was watching him with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Somehow, I knew that this voice was important. It was the strangest feeling, listening to it, to that stranger – but it seemed right. And I knew that somehow you were the key to everything and if I'd let you die I'd never know why all this was happening inside my head."

His voice became a bit hoarse at the end of the monologue. He couldn't think of the last time he had spoken that much. For a moment both men were silent. Eventually Steve sighed and ran a hand across his chin. He hadn't shaved in days and it was beginning to show.

"You could never grow a beard," Bucky heard himself mutter involuntarily. He felt his lips broadening into a grin. He didn't have a picture to go with that assumption, but for some reason he knew that it was a fact. The way Steve's initial scowl turned into a beaming smile only confirmed it.

"No beard, newspapers in my shoes, seriously? Is it so hard to remember something about me that doesn't make me look like a total loser?"

It was a joke. Just a damn joke.

It still hurt. It hurt to know that it wasn't in Bucky's control to remember the important things, and that some things would forever remain foggy.

"Sorry Buck, I didn't mean it."

"Yes, you did." It came out much more bitterly than he had intended. Somehow he couldn't make himself stop. The grin was gone, his lips instead pressed tightly together. "Steve, I know what you've done for me. But you can't expect me to repay the favor by magically transforming into your old pal again. I try, I really do, but no matter what I do… no matter if I remember the day we climbed the fence and went skinny-dipping in Mr. Stokes' pool or how I danced with that girl – it's just not the same."

He recalled the black-and-white picture from the museum.

"I'll never be him again."

 _He sends his regards, by the way._

 _Shut up._

Steve had started to pace the room. It was deeply irritating, but Bucky forced himself to keep his mouth shut. Instead, he placed the empty bottle onto the table and pushed a strand of hair from his forehead. It had been ages since he had last cut it. He wondered how he was supposed to do it singlehandedly.

He got to his feet and rummaged through the drawers. The pacing stopped. With a frustrated sigh Bucky closed the last drawer without finding a pair of scissors. As he turned around, Steve was facing him with narrowed eyes. Bucky opened his mouth to explain himself, but before he could say anything the other man crossed the distance and came to a halt in front of him. For a moment it seemed as if Steve wanted to lay his hand onto his shoulder; he could see his arm twitching, but the Captain stalled.

"Buck… I don't care." Steve shook his head slightly and exhaled deeply. "I don't care if I can't get him back – Bucky Barnes from Brooklyn. You're enough. Whoever you are at the moment, whoever you'll turn out to be – it's enough for me. Just know that you're not alone in this."

To his horror Bucky felt his eyes starting to sting. Who was he to deserve this? He had so much blood on his hands, it felt like a second skin; he was duct tape and safety pins and God knew when he would break, again.

"I know, Steve," he sighed. "It's just… it's not enough for me. God, Steve, the things I've done, the blood I've left behind – I feel like I could drown in it."

His voice had become raw, his insides were painfully twisted. How could he ever explain how it felt like? He could see them when he closed his eyes; he could hear them when the noises of the day were drowned out by the quiet of the dark; he could feel them becoming still and cold beneath his hands. Bucky shuddered and bit his bottom lip.

"And it could happen again. What Zemo did… others could do as well."

 _Zhelaniye._

The memories of the encounter hit him full force. How could Steve ever understand? How could his innocent mind grasp the terror that had washed over him upon hearing the first word? How could he even begin to explain the way his ears had begun to ring, his vision whitened, his insides burst into flames when the few syllables had been enough to make white-hot pain cursing through his veins, the echoes of agony buried deep within the dark corners of his mind, screaming with the voice of a broken, chained figure begging please, _please_ …

 _Does it hurt? Imagine how_ they _must have hurt when you murdered them._

 _Shut –_

 _You were weak,_ soldat _, pathetic, a whimpering mess too much of a coward to kill yourself when you had the chance._

 _Please, stop –_

Tremors whacked his body as he desperately tried to silence the sneering voice. He could feel cold sweat covering his neck and right arm, his left shoulder was burning. He flinched when suddenly strong hands grasped his shoulders, but the shaking didn't ease. Gut-wrenching cries filled his ears, almost drowning out the words that barely found their way through to his clouded mind.

"Buck… Bucky, it's alright, it'll be alright. Oh God, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I'll make this right, I promise. I promise, Buck."

Staccato breathing made it nearly impossible to get air into his lungs. Desperately he tried to force himself to take even breaths, in, out, in, out; he screwed his eyes shut against the sensation of molten metal running into his lungs instead of oxygen. Breathe, Soldier, come on.

"Fuck's sake", he wheezed, feeling wetness forming at the corners of his eyes. He focused on the steady grasp on his shoulders that held him tightly.

 _Captain should have done that earlier, don't you think,_ soldat _?_

 _Shut up, shut up, shut up._

He didn't want to listen; he didn't want any more memories to resurface, not yet.

"I've got you. I've got you. I've got you."

He concentrated on the words, trying to tune his breathing to the repeated sentences. Eventually, after what felt like hours, the shaking stopped. Only then Bucky realized that he had his head pressed against Steve's chest. Immediately he pulled away, wiping his face with his palm and pushing the hair back.

"Sorry," he managed to say while still chasing the last blurry images and faint sounds from his mind. Finally he felt that he could look Steve in the eye. The blonde stared wide-eyed at him, sorrow and anger etched upon his white face, as well as something else that he couldn't quite determine. The blue eyes were shining suspiciously which made Bucky feel extremely uneasy. Captain America wasn't supposed to cry, was he? Certainly not over the mental breakdown of a madman.

Steve steered him toward the chair and took a step backwards, but stayed close. It was plain to see that he didn't want to leave, and Bucky had to admit that he might prefer his company over the unwelcome visits from _him_. He sat slumped in the chair and forced himself to take even breaths.

God, this situation was messed up.

"Has this happened before?" Steve asked quietly. Bucky winced.

"Once or twice, maybe."

 _Liar._

"Buck."

"Alright, so probably a few times. I don't always remember." Again, he felt frustration stirring in his chest. "I used to write it down, you know? All the bits and pieces, they're all in my books," he admitted, wishing more than ever that these most valuable possessions weren't lost. "Not from the beginning, just after a while when I felt like I should remember something – knew that I _had_ remembered it at some point – but couldn't put my finger on it."

 _Because you're a coward who doesn't_ want _to remember._

 _Shut the fuck up._

Bucky forced himself to a lopsided smile.

"Guess my old age is finally taking its toll on me."

"Welcome to my life."

Steve said it with a weak grin of his own and probably didn't mean anything by it. But still the four words struck a chord.

"Thank you," Bucky muttered and realized at the same moment that it was the first time he'd actually said these words out loud. "For not giving up on me. You've given up so much, but somehow, never me."

He expected a wistful remark from the Soldier, but for once, the voice stayed silent. But so did Steve. A multitude of emotions played across his face and Bucky cursed himself for reminding the Captain of what he'd done to his team just for… well, the guy who had murdered his way through the decades. He was aware of how his mind was wandering off to dangerous places again. It took all of his willpower to not allow his thoughts to stray further.

"How could I?" Steve's quiet voice shook Bucky from his thoughts. "You always believed in me. Before the serum, before the war, before everything. Even when I had nothing, I had you."

Bucky swallowed down the lump that had formed in his throat. Images flickered before his inner eye, of two boys chasing an ice cream truck, of Steve putting old newspapers into the large boots someone had thrown away, of a football match and a shared bottle of beer. He saw a scrawny boy wiping blood from his mouth in a littered alley, a crowded bar, a brunette girl dancing away the worries of war, a band playing a song he couldn't hear.

"Good times," he said and took a deep breath. "If someone had told me back then that those would be the best days, I wouldn't have believed it. But that's the past. Some things should stay there."

Make that into a friggin' t-shirt, Barnes.

Steve didn't seem to mind, though. A little smile was playing at his lips, his gaze absent for a few seconds. It made Bucky wonder who he was thinking of. Had there been a girl back then? He was almost sure that there had been someone, but the picture was blurry and nameless. Even if he could see her, Bucky knew that now wasn't the right moment to mention it. He stifled a yawn. His aching body made itself known; his stump began to itch underneath the tight-fitting cap.

"I'll try to get some rest," he announced, which shook Steve from his reverie.

"Will you be okay?" he asked with the typical facial expression Bucky had become so accustomed to. "You know I can –"

"Get on the sofa if it makes you feel better," Bucky interrupted him with an overly dramatic eye-roll. "But if you snore, I can't guarantee anything."

He flexed his right arm to prove the point, which surprisingly didn't seem to impress Steve, who just grinned.

"You used to keep the whole barracks awake with your snoring, Buck."

He was clearly starting to make things up. Bucky just huffed and made a beeline for the bed. Taking off his shirt and jeans – a whole new challenge with only one arm, he found out – a frightening thought entered his mind.

"Steve?"

"Yeah?" Steve was already lying on the sofa, his feet hanging over the sofa arm and his broad shoulders barely fitting at all. "Wow, sometimes I wish I was still the small kid that could basically sleep in a suitcase. What is it?"

Bucky narrowed his eyes and looked sternly at Steve from across the room.

"Under no circumstances, and I mean _absolutely no circumstances_ , will Birdman hear about you babysitting me."

Steve's "'Course not", accompanied by quiet chuckling, didn't sound too convincing, though.

* * *

A/N: "Dear boy, you're all duct tape and safety pins inside. How are you still alive?" is from Supernatural 9x08. Found the quote matched with a Bucky gif on Pinterest.

Reviews are very much appreciated!

Again, thanks a lot to my beta cairistiona7.


	3. Deeper panic

Thanks a lot for the reviews! Hope you're ready for some more Bucky angst.

* * *

 **3\. Deeper Panic**

 _He told me I should have known  
That he hated the way I'd grown to love soft lies_

 _The ice is crunching beneath his boots. His whole body is freezing, the wind bites into his skin, and through the snowstorm he can make out the tall figure that now turns to face him. He can't breathe, can't speak, and then the figure becomes a man, staring at him with cold and deadly eyes, one hand gripping a gun, the other – the metallic one – pulling someone up who he hasn't noticed before. His insides turn to ice. He knows that kid._ Leave him alone _, he wants to yell, but he can't move his lips. The Soldier laughs, a terrifying laugh that makes Bucky's vision go white. The child kicks, but to no avail, and he can only watch helplessly as the Soldier presses the barrel of the gun against the kid's temple. A thin bead of blood runs down the side of the victim's head and Bucky's stomach clenches._ Please, don't. Let him be, please.

" _Don't kill him," he finally manages to croak, and he hates the weakness in his voice. The Soldier laughs again._

" _I won't."_

 _He steps closer, pushing the kid forward, the evil twisted smirk sending shivers down Bucky's spine._

" _You will."_

No, no, no _, he thinks, for he knows what's coming. He can sense it, the familiar tension gripping him with its icy claws that will soon turn into fire to set his insides ablaze._

" _Zhelaniye."_

Stop, please, stop.

" _Rzhavyy."_

 _Pain, unending, unyielding; it starts in his head and spreads like lightning that splits a tree in half. Someone screams, is it him or the boy? He can still hear the laughter, but it's faint through the haze of pain that engulfs him._

" _Semnadtsat'."_

 _It's too much, he can't take it, he wants to beg for it to stop but he knows there's only one way to end it. End the pain, end the fear. Knives twist inside of him, tearing at his insides, ripping him apart. There's blood on his hands, dripping, mingling with the snow. The boy stares at him with terror in his eyes, but it's his own fault, how could he get himself captured, and now he's suffering for the kid and why should he do that?_

He's worth it.

 _Somewhere in the back of his mind, these words echo, and he tries to grab them and hold on to them._

" _Rassvet."_

 _Fury stirs in his chest, blind rage that battles with the pain; he staggers toward him, gaze set on the gun, it'll end. It'll end. He curls his fingers around the cool metal, it's comfort and safety and peace of some sort; the pain ebbs away as he takes the weapon from the cold non-silver hand, the Soldier sneers, his insides are screaming but his hand is steady._

He's worth it.

 _The backlash of the gun shatters his wrist, the barrel scrapes against his skin; he opens his mouth to a silent scream, waiting for the world to turn black. It should hurt. There should be darkness. Blood drips from his broken hand, the gun slips from his fingers, but he doesn't fall. Instead the boy sinks to his knees, eyes wide with shock and pain and – empathy?_

No, no, no. Not you. It should have been me, not you.

 _The Soldier is suddenly in front of him, sneering with menacing eyes. He knows he'll pay for this and he hates himself for the fear cursing through his body when the boy is bleeding out at his feet._

 _The metallic arm shoots forward, grabbing him by the neck, he can't breathe, can't move; he sees his reflection in the cold, dead eyes, words lure into his brain, there is fear and pain and rage and hate and –_

 _He kicks out, struggling with all his might, his fist connects with the Soldier's face. Bone onto bone, the agony makes him blind, but it feels good._

 _Suddenly the kid stirs. "Buck." How can he be alive? It's a trick, an illusion. The Soldier grins, nodding slowly with blood running down his chin and the metal hand still around his throat. The boy's there, shouting, there's a hole in the side of his head and still he's moving, it's a trick, just a trick, "Bucky, stop!", it's a trick. He can't breathe, he can't speak, and it's the boy's fault, it's –_

 _His fist sends the kid flying. The Soldier smiles._

" _For a moment I'd thought you'd grown soft", he whispers, his lips just a hair's width away from his ear, he's never been that close. The metal hand unclenches, his throat burns. "It's not who you are, after all, is it?"_

 _The kid's back, blood on the side of his head, blood in the corner of his mouth; he stares at him, sees his lips moving, speaking, but he can't hear him through the ringing in his ears as he curls his hand around the thin neck, as fragile as a bird, just one snap; more blood, it's on the boy's chest now, then soaking his stomach, and strangely he can feel his own chest burning with the sensation of a hundred bullets piercing his skin, his fingers cramp, stop, there's too much blood, stop, stop –_

" _Bucky, please, let go," the boy is begging now, the Soldier is smiling. End the boy, end the pain._

He's worth it.

" _Buck, please. It'll be alright."_

He's worth it.

 _The fingers let go, the boy drops to his knees. The Soldier doesn't laugh. He knows he'll pay for that._

" _I'm disappointed."_

 _The world turns black and red, the blood drips from his hand, the flames eat away at his bleeding body._

 _He screams._

 _Teach me, teach me not to dream  
Dream deeply_

Bucky's eyes flew open, unfocused, unrecognizing; his breath came in harsh gasps as the echo of a scream still lingered in the room.

"Buck, it's okay. It's okay."

The voice… it didn't belong to the Soldier, not to any of his handlers, or had they changed since last time? The mission, the kid, the blood dripping onto snow – no, no, no, he had escaped. He had cut those strings. Made a life. He was shaking horribly underneath his shirt drenched with sweat, and slowly, so slowly his vision cleared.

His eyes found a pair of blue ones gazing back at him, promising safety and peace and comfort, but still his hand was dripping blood.

"You can let go, Buck."

It was only then that he realized he was sitting upright, with his bare feet on the floor and his fingers around Steve's wrist in an iron grip. One of the cuts had reopened, but as Bucky withdrew his hand he could see blood beneath his fingernails, too. He recoiled, staring at his shaking hand; he could almost smell the coppery scent and his stomach did a double flip. The kid.

"I killed him," he whispered hoarsely, and he could hear the Soldier snickering in the back of his mind.

 _Not just him. You killed them all, you will kill_ him _._

"The kid… you…"

Blood, blood, so much of it and he was drowning.

"Shh, Bucky, look at me. Look at me. I'm here."

His hand found Steve's arm, hovering above it this time instead of grabbing it, barely touching him for fear of breaking bone. He felt Steve's hands pressing his vibrating shoulders; he managed to pry his gaze away from his bloodied hand and set it onto the face before him.

"You're here. I'm here," he rasped, hating himself for the weakness of his voice and the wetness on his cheeks. Steve's temple was grazed, a red scratch ran down the side of his face. Bucky felt sick.

"I did this," he mumbled, shocked and ashamed, immediately trying to pull away, but the hands on his shoulders held him fast and steady. "God, Steve… I did – I almost killed you. I shot –"

"It. Wasn't. You."

Steve emphasized every word, but each syllable felt like another bullet.

"I watched. I watched, Steve, and I… I couldn't… You know what it feels like, watching your hands take a life when all you wanna do is put the damn bullet through your own fucking head?"

He could see Steve freezing, his face turning grey, except for his eyes. Still blue. He focused on that, trying to catch the moment when all the compassion and love would turn into the darkness he deserved.

"Damnit, Buck," he muttered, his voice trembling ever so slightly. "What have they done to you?"

 _Oh boy, you don't wanna know._

Still blue.

Bucky wanted to speak, to shout at him to quit the fucking staring with all that empathy he didn't deserve, but he felt his throat constrict with the tears that weren't coming. This was all so wrong. Anger stirred in his chest and quickly unwound, filling him and taking his breath away. He wasn't supposed to be this weak.

"It's alright. I got you."

Somehow, with these three words, something shattered.

Till the end of the line. You're my friend. James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky's fingers grasped the fabric of Steve's shirt, suddenly knowing that he needed to hold on for otherwise the world would tilt and send him falling forever. The anger inside found its way through his chest, transforming into something else, and it hurt. God, he wanted the hurting to stop. He felt the shaking increase. Deep down he remembered that there had been a time when he hadn't felt so cold. A lifetime ago, he thought, a lifetime they had been robbed of.

Steve was humming softly, pulling him closer, and for once Bucky let him. He pressed his head against the crook of his friend's neck, his right hand still holding on, always holding on, always fearing that memories would slip through his fingers again. He concentrated on the humming, trying to sync his breathing to it somehow, just to ease the shaking. There was something familiar about the melody. It was slightly out of tune, but it never wavered. It reminded him of narrow back alleys, of fire escapes and the smell of stew.

It was a long song.

"I got you. I won't let go. Not again, I promise, Buck."

"How can you?" Bucky finally managed to croak. His voice was muffled against the soaked shirt. "You can't always protect me… protect others _from_ me. You got a life. Don't throw that away for me, I don't deserve it."

He thought of the blonde girl, of the snickering that had followed, the easy banter between Steve and Sam; he thought of Sam and the arrow guy and the magical girl, locked up somewhere, enemies of the state and for what? It was HYDRA's fault, he tried to remind himself, but he couldn't quite silence the whispering voice within. With all his strength he pulled away and lifted his head.

The grip on his shoulders became stronger. The pair of eyes before him was glazed over. Still blue.

"Buck, everything that's happened... it wasn't your fault." This time Steve didn't even give him the opportunity to protest. "This whole mess – that's on me. Don't you dare take the blame for it."

"But if I hadn't –"

"No. I messed up and I will deal with the consequences."

Steve's mouth was pressed to a thin line as he looked sternly at Bucky. Again, he saw the strange expression in his eyes that he couldn't quite put a finger on.

"People get hurt when I'm around," Bucky said quietly, clenching his fist. A drop of blood formed at the cut on his knuckles. "I can't let that happen. Not again."

His words were barely audible, spoken rather to himself than to Steve, but for once his voice was steady. Steve shook his head and squeezed Bucky's shoulder.

"Don't start again with the cryo crap. I can't - It won't happen again. I won't let it happen, Buck, I promise. I won't –"

Steve hesitated and ran his free hand over his face. The blue was swimming now, Bucky realized with a jolt of panic. He didn't know how to handle tears. Hell, he could barely handle his own in the early hours of the day with the echo of the Soldier's voice in his head.

"I won't fail you, Bucky," Steve said with a raspy voice and added, whispering, "Not again."

Reaching, reaching, always reaching for the hand vanishing from sight. Crimson on white; blue and white above and burning red within. Voices. Pain. Screaming. A name. Mother, sometimes. Nothing. Ice.

"I should've gone after you, I should've – God, it should've been me."

Guilt. It was guilt that was mirrored in the blue eyes, magnified a thousand fold as if seen through a tear-shaped lens.

Bucky shook his head, trying in vain to ban the images from his mind.

Falling, reaching, always reaching. _Thank God it's me, not you._

 _He left you to die._

 _Shut up._

 _Worse even, he left you to become a monster._

 _Shut the fuck up._

 _He –_

 _He's my friend._

It took Bucky three shuddering breaths until the Soldier retreated to the shadows.

"Yes, you left me," he mumbled. "And I waited."

"God, Buck –"

"But in the end, you found me. Gave me a choice." His voice almost faltered. "And if I now ask you to let me make a choice one more time, you'll be the one waiting, I know that. You always will, till the end of the damn line and beyond."

He tried his hardest to ignore the silvery lines on his friend's cheeks.

"You wanna make amends? Allow me to choose."

* * *

A/N:

"Thank God it's me, not you" is straight from a Tumblr post (derekfuckngale and ink-phoenix)

Final chapter will be up soon!


	4. Swallow your fears

Final chapter, I hope you like it.

Thanks so much Cairistiona for beta-reading this! All remaining mistakes are mine, feel free to point them out, I changed part of the ending a little bit.

* * *

 **4\. Swallow your fears**

 _I missed you_

Silence roared like thunder between them. Bucky watched Steve as the words sank in. He witnessed the millions of emotions clouding his eyes, changing from almost grey to a light pale blue and ending somewhere in between. Bucky knew that he was asking for much. After everything they'd been through, in a past life and the current one, it was maybe _too_ much to ask. Of course the Wakandan doctors would listen to him anyway – at least he hoped so-, it wasn't like Captain America was his legal guardian, after all. But somehow he needed to know that his friend was okay with it.

"Alright."

Bucky exhaled the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

He let his back drop against the headboard of the bed and drew his knees up to his chest. Closing his eyes for a moment, he allowed himself to reconsider. He conjured up pictures of the cryo chambers and the sensation of ice creeping up his body. His stomach remained calm. The Soldier stayed hidden.

"Thank you."

Steve nodded with a forced smile. He seemed to be lost in thought for a while. Eventually he sat down opposite Bucky, crossing his legs and letting his shoulders drop. He looked younger all of a sudden, and Bucky thought he could see a camouflage tent and canned food and the smoke of cigarettes.

"It's one of the last things I said to Peggy before I crashed that plane, you know?" Steve said quietly. "I said, 'This is my choice' and I knew it was the right one. Now I wonder… if I had chosen otherwise – could I have made it back? And if I had – how long would it have taken me to find out you were still alive?"

There were too many ifs for Bucky's liking, and he tried to quickly change the subject.

"That song you butchered with your out-of-tune humming... I knew it. Didn't your mom sing that to you?"

To his immense relief, a smile spread across Steve's face.

"She did, yeah. Reminded her of home, she used to say. 'Stevie', she'd say, 'my boy, we'll always find our way home. 'tis a long road sometimes, and not always a nice one, but home is home and worth the walk.' Not exactly easy to digest for a kid but… I think I'm beginning to understand what she meant." He frowned. "And I didn't _butcher_ it, thank you very much. Next time you start crying on my shoulder, you'd prefer a nursery rhyme?"

The corners of Bucky's mouth twitched.

"I'll pass."

If he had it his way, he wouldn't cry on Steve's shoulder ever again.

"Man, music sure has changed," Steve said and glanced at his phone. "Not to mention that all the music of the thirties and forties combined fits onto this."

Bucky chuckled, suddenly feeling very old indeed. He vaguely remembered a night on a mission when he'd listened to the radio in an abandoned house.

"You know I got to listen to the radio once?" Somehow he felt like Steve might appreciate him sharing a good memory for a change. "They had left a rookie with me who made it work. It was a good song, some rock music I think."

"You always loved music," Steve remarked fondly. "You went dancing whenever you could, making the girls fall head over heels for you, you know?"

No, he did _not_ know. But for his friend's sake, Bucky nodded vaguely.

"Well, the second my handler got in and heard the music, the fun was over, but it sure was a good moment."

The mission had lasted another day and despite the usual wiping broken fragments of the song had withstood the process. No words, just a beat and a melody, but it still made Bucky feel warmer inside than he'd been in a long while. He hummed quietly, tapping his index and middle finger against his knee.

Steve raised his eyebrows.

"No wonder your handler didn't want you to hear that. The Boss singing could have easily triggered a memory, I suppose."

"Your boss was in a band?" Bucky asked incredulously and regretted the question the same moment Steve burst into laughter. Did Steve even have a boss anymore now that he had literally dropped the shield? He decided to not dwell on that thought for too long. "Hey, amnesiac assassin here, show some respect", he said grumpily and watched Steve's giggling – _giggling_?! – with narrowed eyes. He didn't really mean it, though. He had the distinct notion that the man hadn't laughed like this in a long time.

"Sorry, pal," Steve eventually managed to say, though the corners of his mouth still twitched. "But the idea of… of… Phil Coulson's secret boyband, that's just…" He cleared his throat. "Not my boss. _The Boss_. Bruce Springsteen. 'Born in the USA'."

"What's that, your theme song? What happened to 'The star-spangled man with a plan'?" Bucky said, grinning. The red creeping up Steve's cheeks was surprisingly satisfying.

"You're an ass, you know that?" Steve was shooting daggers at him from across the bed. "How do you remember that?"

"Did my research."

Yes, he definitely enjoyed that little moment.

Steve huffed, but it was plain to see that he didn't really mind. He fumbled with his phone for a while before he looked up at Bucky.

"What about some music?"

Soon a beat filled the room, rattling from the speaker of Steve's phone. Bucky let his head fall back and closed his eyes. It started with the familiar voice of the rock singer. He recognized the beat, the drums and the guitar. The words found their way into his ears quite slowly, something about a war and a girl. He felt himself tensing up, clenching his fist, waiting for the Soldier to make some wistful remark about shooting people. Before that could happen, though, the beat suddenly changed.

Bucky looked up and found Steve watching him. Of course he had noticed that little moment. He always did. He'd make sure not to trigger the Soldier with his music, Bucky knew that much. He could trust him. Still, he tried to focus on the melody rather than the words, and soon he let his mind drift while tapping his fingers rhythmically. The music changed eventually, sounded older, more joyful. At one point he thought he could see a girl, her dark curls flying as she twirled before him, but he couldn't make out her face. After a while, the music was replaced by a pop song he knew he had heard on the radio just a couple of months ago. When he opened his eyes again Steve was still sitting there, watching him with a smile tugging at his lips.

"Reminds me of our flat in Brooklyn," he said. "We couldn't afford a radio, but Mrs. Stanley from next door would turn hers up so loud we could hear it through the wall."

"Yeah, I think I remember that," Bucky replied, embracing the images that flickered through his mind. "Glory days indeed."

They spent the rest of the night listening to music, sometimes talking about the many insignificant things that meant so much, until, eventually, the sun rose above Wakanda. When Bucky made his choice, his mind was clear.

 _Did you miss me?_

* * *

A/N 1: It's quite an open end, I know. But we know the result anyway and I'm currently so curious about Cairi's approach that I don't want to write it myself.

A/N 2: Song list

\- the song that Steve's mum used to sing is "Danny Boy", which was released in 1915 to the the tune of "Londonderry Fair" and which I love very, very much. It's a traditional Irish song, so I thought it would be appropriate for Mrs. Rogers.

\- "Born in the USA" is, of course, one of Bruce Springsteen's greatest hits. It deals with the Vietnam War, so after some consideration I thought Steve would decide to not run the risk of triggering Bucky by playing it.

\- I thought Steve might instead play songs like "No surrender", "Bobby Jean" or "Glory days" (both from the same album), there are certain lines that remind me of those two (and even though Bucky doesn't listen to the words, they obviously find their ways into his head, hence his "Glory days indeed."

\- The old song is "(I've Got A Gal In) Kalamazoo" by Glenn Miller. "Although originally recorded by the Glenn Miller band with Tex Beneke on lead vocals, it was recreated by the fictional Gene Morrison Orchestra performing as the Glenn Miller Band and the Nicholas Brothers (performing the song as part of a dance sequence) in the 1942 20th Century Fox movie _Orchestra Wives_." (Wikipedia)

\- the pop song might be anything, maybe some Ed Sheeran, they play him everywhere so probably even in Romania ;)

A/N 3: I might write an accompanying one-shot from Steve's pov for that last part. But right now I have a cosplay to work on (yep, I'll cosplay Bucky in December and I'm so excited!), a job to find and a PhD thesis to defend (easy to see where my priorities lie) so it might take a while.


End file.
